We'll All End In Ruins
by Kaara
Summary: An executioner of his own pitiful life and maybe you're fortunate enough to be the one to witness the fall of an empire built upon skeletons and gunpowder. 1859. OneShot .


**Disclaimer: **Characters of Katekyou Hitman Reborn! do not belong to me. I'm just using them for my own amusement.  
**Warning: **Contains strong language, pretentious metaphors, violence and 2nd person POV.  
**Note:** It feels like years since I last wrote something. Reviews, especially critiques, are welcomed, please and thank you.

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**{we'll all end in ruins}**

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This is a dangerous world, encased in bullet shells, empty eyes and nights flashing redblacksilver that blurs around the edges until everything despairs and withers. It's a world that consumes without warning, breeds contempt and anarchy, ticking time bomb and Molotov cocktail all rolled into that shot glass just off the tips of your fingers.

"P-please help m—"

Hands latch onto your perfectly-pressed trousers, creasing and grasping and you spare them a second, a glance. You don't understand why they still ask for mercy when they've signed their soul to the devil, why they cling so desperately when they are so weak, too weak. Weakness taints and this is _your_ world.

Your finger finds the trigger.

"Stop wasting time with fodders."

His words ring clearer than the gunshot and you don't need to look up to know he's spitting smoke and disgust. It's always that way with him; all push and shove and barbed wire around the throat and sometimes you want to pull to see if it's as fucking brilliant as it looks, if it will fucking hurt as much. Instead, you move forward, heels digging into scattered destruction.

"Mind your own business."

He's a flash of silver in your peripheral, matching your movement as if you're clockwork. Tick tock, tick tock and you can hear the click of his lighter, the satisfied sigh that follows like a prayer left unanswered.

You've memorised his routine like your heartbeat.

"Hibari."

That thinly-veiled poison lacing your name and there's no one who does it better than him. You relish the half-a-second before he scowls at you, and you know that he knows you're not like the rest, who bow and bend and do circus tricks at his whims. You only deign to reply when the silence stretches a bit too thin and you can hear the telltale whisper of wicks being lit, seconds away from detonation.

"What."

"You're an assfuck."

"Herbivore."

"You're an assfuck with lame comebacks."

"What do you want."

"I've been trying to tell you." He flicks an annoyed look your way, steel green eyes brimming with the customary '_why the fuck am I stuck with you?_' sentiment he relegates on everyone who is not Sawada. "We're done for tonight. Yamamoto and Sasagawa have dealt with the reinforcements. We should go back and report."

You stop midway across the clearing, don't really mind standing in a pool of blood soaking up into polished leather because he makes you want to laugh and laugh and sink your teeth into those lips (or maybe his jugular, that beautiful neck) just to shut him up. He's playing make-believe and you're not his monkey on a music box.

"Gokudera Hayato."

You watch him watch you, lips pursed wary and vigilant because you and he are trains on constant collision courses, just waiting to crash and burn and drag everything down the hell designed for boys with dangerous tempers.

"No one orders me around."

There's a moment of silence. The centre of a storm before utter ruins, you wonder (delicious tingles in your spine) and you're almost, almost disappointed when he sighs.

"Whatever."

You think there's something different in his eyes when he turns, looks at you over the shoulder, quicksilver shift of emotions under sootblack lashes that lingers (and burns) long after he melts into embracing shadows.

You don't understand, can never begin to guess.

But it feels like fucking fireworks, sulphur and flames and you can't suppress the grin you wear throughout the night.

**x**

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You don't see him for weeks, months afterward. It's either Japan or Italy, here or there and you don't meet halfway in between.

Sometimes you dream of him, nights when you drift between worlds and aren't quite sure if you're dead or alive. Sometimes he's bloody and ripped apart, spilling obscenities and promises from painted lips and you have your mouth over the slurs of his tongue. Sometimes you're so far into the future you feel the brittle shake of your bones against his, razor-sharp laughter in the kitchen as you drink coffee and he scrubs ash from glasses. You wake up feeling more tired than when you first go to sleep, aching in someplace other than your overworked muscles and you shake it off with nothing more than a scowl, a scoff.

There are undercurrents of _something wrong_ everywhere you turn and you don't have time to deal with foolish illusions of things that will never be.

(_But you sleep, you dream and you still ache_.)

**x**

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It's the end of the world, hails of burning charcoals at your doorstep and you enjoy the sheer desperation and panic of a hunt before the inevitable cutthroat. It's the flip of a coin and Vongola retreats deeper, withdrawing faster as everything collapses one step at a time. It doesn't really concern you if it's anywhere else but Namimori is yours, has and will always been, so Apocalypse can wait another lifetime.

Sawada gets quieter after each meeting and you know he's planning something, even in line for the guillotine but he speaks to you in quiet whispers, in dark chambers like you are sharing a secret. You watch and observe, offer caustic words and scrounged up information from back alleys and broken bodies because you can't save the world alone, even if you want to. He smiles, grim and hopeful and when he starts to reminisce of times long past ("_do you remember, do you remember—"_), you excuse yourself. You're not interested in memories recited on deathbed.

Your room is a sanctuary, quiet and solemn and Kusakabe has taken the time to set aside a simple meal and some sake as you change, peel bloodcrusts from your skin. The first sip of liquor always calms you down, that languid trickle of warmth and something sharp at the back of your throat is enough to comfort. You flick a finger at the yellow ball pecking over a platter of rice cakes and vegetables tempura, indulgent of small nips and nonsensical chirps until you hear footsteps in front of your door, one-sided arguments into empty hallway and you wait.

It doesn't take long and he reminds you of the aftermath of a storm, all ravaged and torn and oh so pathetic. He looks like a man fighting a losing battle; knuckles white, teeth bared and at the verge of crossing that fine, thin line. Shadows paints anguish around his eyes (wild things that they are, always searching), you notice when he sits beside you, legs and knees folded awkwardly. There's a green-tinted bottle in his hand, a wine glass in another and he's staring at the print screens, at anything but you and you continue sipping sake as if you're used to ghosts as companion.

"I don't know what to do anymore."

You pause, lick the last drop of sake and reach out for more. "I don't care."

"I've tried everything. I don't understand." You hear the pop, the restless tremor in his voice and you're suddenly aware how close he is. How he reeks of decay and guilt and you inhale deeply, gulp down more sake than you intend. At the corner of your eyes, you see him drain a glass of redredred wine in one go, the bobs of adam's apple pale and inviting. "We've— I've failed him."

"You're lost. Yamamoto's room is at the other side."

"You don't care." He laughs, rasping voice or maybe he's crying; you can never tell. "You keep telling me."

"Then why are you here."

His fingers twine around the end of his crooked tie, jerkpull at it as if to tighten a noose. An executioner of his own pitiful life and maybe you're fortunate enough to be the one to witness the fall of an empire built upon skeletons and gunpowder. You always know he won't last forever. A king without a crown, nothing more than papier-mâché soaked in gasoline. Lights himself on fire and pretend as if he's running on eternity only to burn down halfway from glory, crumble to the ground grasping at the sky. You pour yourself another cup of sake and savour the vision of a breakdown, until he tilts his head toward you, too-quiet voice cuts through the silence.

"I... don't know."

It's raw and honest, a slice of his bleeding heart served up on a silver platter and this must be one colossal fucking joke. People don't come to your for a pat at the back, a shoulder to cry on. You'll gladly break both (as well as other assorted limbs) if given enough reason. He doesn't flinch when you lean closer, doesn't bat an eyelash when you wrap your hand around that soslender neck and dig your fingers hard enough to break skin. You watch as blood seeps underneath your nails, stains your skin with that perfect crimson hue.

"I don't entertain herbivores."

"Don't worry." A hint of teeth and mirthless eyes, the kind of bitter smile that makes you want to sneer right back. He swallows like he's choking on bile. "You don't entertain _anyone_."

"I don't need to." You tighten your grip, satisfaction singing hymns in your head when he winces. "And you better remember that."

"Hibari..."

There's that unreadable look again like he's hinting at something, repressing and you're not built to understand emotions. You feel invisible flames spreading from where you're connected, travelling wildfire of frustration and desires. And then. Everything clicks, crystal fucking clear. You jerk him closer, relish in the flare of panic in those eyes. "What do you want. _Really_."

"I want..." He hesitates, green eyes flickering with apprehension and self-loath. (_You. I want you._). "Tell me I haven't failed him."

"Are you kidding." You brush your lips against the shell of his ear, whisper the affirmation that he yearns for as if you're sharing something private and intimate. "You're a failure through and through, herbivore."

He springs forth at your words, coils wound too tightly and you catch the fist aimed at the side of your face. You curl your fingers into deepening punctures in his neck, around his shaking fist and shove him back onto the lacquered floor, pin him flat on his back with your hands and knees.

"What the fuck—"

"Quiet."

You want to crush him, whatever left of his pride and fighting spirit. Make him beg prettily for you to hurt him. You remember the days when he will just lurch forward when challenged, more volatile than nitroglycerine on a truck and maybe growing up drenched in blood has dulled the edge of that sharp, sharp temper. His lips are pulled back in a snarl, (always defiant even when defeated) but the telltale spread of red on his face— he_knows_. You release his fist and neck, trails your hand over his exposed collarbone, the silky smooth glide of his tie between your fingers. There's a second of indecision, whether to pull it off or push it all the way against his throat, a garrotte that will end his miserable existence and you're doing him a favour after all. He sneers as if he knows what you're thinking and grabs the tie, rips it off and flings it aside without a word. You raise an eyebrow at his impatience, ignore the rush of fascination lightingflash in your veins because he doesn't need to know how you itch to spread him open for your viewing pleasure. To satisfy your curiosity, to see just how far you can push before he breaks.

You press your elbow into the crook of his neck, intent to suffocate and when he gasps, mouths insults and abuses like he means them, you think that _this will do_.

You can settle for _this_.

This is nothing poetic. This is pure animalistic desire, carnal and unyielding and you laugh at his breathless gasps, watch appreciatively as bruises bloom on ragged ivory skin. He doesn't beg as much as _demand_, as if he's worthy of everything that you have to offer and more. There are hands clasped over your shoulders, dragging you down against smooth skin, biting kisses and snarls of your name. Constant crescendo of pain and pleasure and _fuck what the fuck are you doing fuck me harder_ breathed over your grinning lips and this is it-- you'll crash and burn and self-destruct.

It'll be fucking _majestic_.

**x**

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You don't tell him you're leaving the next morning. You do not owe him anything—he will understand.

(_There might not be strings but he's yours, chains and locks and keys._)

He _knows_.

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The next time you see him, he's ten years younger and you're ten years too late.

Covered in blood, broken bones and vengeful spirit, at the mercy of something as pathetic as the Black Spell. You watch as he writhes and struggles, screams defiance and Yamamoto's name and you can't think of anything but why. It's just a reflection in the mirror, slightly distorted but still familiar.

You don't understand the disappointment you feel.

_He is not the same._

It takes you a couple of minutes and the crunch of something breaking before you even consider stepping in and assisting those weaklings. You scrutinise the adversary, that dawning recognition in his eyes and there is a sense of urgency settling in at the back of your mind. The faster this nuisance ends, the quicker you can get rid of that silver-haired nobody.

Because he's not the one that you want.

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**END**


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